


In Your Wake

by belovedmuerto



Series: An Experiment in Empathy [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Epic Bromance, Gen, Psychic, and Mycroft and Greg are sweet on each other, empath!John, experiment in empathy, john's got some secrets of his own, rad bromance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-13
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 11:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock finds out what John has been keeping from him the hard way, John is irritated and doesn't want to be in hospital, Mycroft learns that his brother is kinda psychic and wonders why he was the last to know, and Greg flirts a bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Wake

**Author's Note:**

> We're getting close, y'all! Not that I'm planning to leave this 'verse behind completely, but after this arc is finished I'm going to take a break for a bit. Write about demigods and Death or about witches and fairies and the like.
> 
> As always, beta credit to Castiron. This one hasn't been Brit-picked yet; I'll edit once I've got those notes in hand.

John is prone on the ground, not moving, and Sherlock is kneeling next to him, one hand clutched in his own curls, the other clenched in John's jumper. There's blood in John's hair, bright and wet and vital. There is another man--the suspect-- also prone on the ground, face bloodied, dazed and groaning in pain. There's more blood on him, in his hair, on his face, leaking from his nose.

Lestrade isn’t sure what the fuck just happened, but he can tell it isn’t good.

“Get me out of here get us out of here god it hurts it’s too much oh god my head it hurts,” Sherlock is murmuring through clenched teeth, when Greg crouches next to him to assess John's condition.

John isn't conscious, and Sherlock appears not to be doing much better. Greg takes John's pulse and gingerly moves his head to look at the lump forming on his forehead. He’s got a serious goose egg forming, and his coloring is awful, but his breathing is good and pulse strong.

“Sherlock,” Greg says after he’s determined that John probably needs the ambulance that’s on its way but isn’t in immediate danger of death, and reaches out to put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. “Sherlock?”

It takes Sherlock a few moments to focus on Greg. “Emergency services are on their way,” Greg adds, because the look on Sherlock’s face is frankly terrifying, like nothing will ever be fine again. “John will be okay.”

Sherlock glares at him, shakes his head. “Don't be stupid, Lestrade, of course he will be.” But he seems to pull himself out of his miniature breakdown and focuses on John, moving to frame the unconscious man's head between his hands, touch gentle, ginger, careful like Greg rarely sees from Sherlock. Greg has no idea what he's doing, but he reckons it's something to do with them being bonded, and he knows better than to ask Sherlock about that. He’s never spoken to Sherlock about it, and Greg has every intention of keeping it that way. He doesn’t know that John would tell him either, come to think of it.

Sherlock manages to ride along with John in the ambulance through sheer arrogance. He simply doesn’t give the EMTs any opportunity to object to his presence next to John in the back of the vehicle. Just before the ambulance pulls away from the scene, Lestrade tells Sherlock that he will stop by the hospital later, to check on John and to talk to Sherlock about his statement. Sherlock barely acknowledges him, focused wholly on John. The only indication Greg is left with to let him know Sherlock heard him is a vague waving of Sherlock’s hand.

\----

The EMT thinks that they’re a couple. In their own way, he supposes the man isn’t wrong. Not entirely wrong, anyway, though neither he nor John would ever describe themselves, their relationship in such confusing terms. He doesn’t bother to correct the man working on John, checking his vitals, hooking him up to oxygen and a saline drip. He doesn’t bother correcting the driver. What’s the point when they won’t believe him anyway? Sherlock simply holds John’s hand and tries to will him back to consciousness.

Sherlock can feel everything they feel. It’s like they’re stabbing him with their emotions, repeatedly, forcefully. He can’t think around it, it’s all he can do not to seize upon every feeling, to feel it as thoroughly as they do. The determination with which they work upon John is good, that is easy to handle, that is reassuring and welcomed. The driver’s worry about his girlfriend and her pregnancy scare is less easy to handle-- _not yours, she’s been cheating on you, you’ve been looking for a reason to break up with her anyway_. There is a faint sense of unease that he can’t place at all, but it flutters around the edges of his mind and he wishes he could bat it away like a fly. It feels almost sticky, that uneasy feeling, but he doesn’t have the time to analyze that right now. He doesn’t have the time to do anything but concentrate on John and concentrate on letting the emotional detritus of the normal people filter, slowly, so slowly, through his head.

It’s all he can do not to just start babbling at them, their emotions and the details of it all overwhelming him, trying to short out his brain. They well up inside him, try to force their way out, but he can’t let them.

It’s all he can do to concentrate on John. John is who is important right now. John needs him.

It’s all he can do to let the emotions go, to flow through him and back out again the way John seems to be able to do.

 _How does John do it?_

 _How does John keep this much of it from me? And on a constant basis? How? And WHY?_

\----

John is rushed through the A&E--the unconscious or bleeding always get first attention. Unconscious and bleeding is a trump card. Sherlock tries to follow, but the hospital staff are implacable; Sherlock isn't family or a spouse, he's not allowed to see John, to follow him, to know anything. It’s a breach of privacy, of policy, of patient rights, never mind Sherlock’s claims. They’re working to keep him stable and to contact his family.

They ignore Sherlock when he shouts, “I **am** his family.”

Sherlock is at a loss. He's rude, and belligerent, and loud, and none of it accomplishes anything. He wishes they'd taken John to Barts, where people know better than to get in Sherlock Holmes's way. He paces in the A&E waiting room, glaring murder at all the poor sods unlucky enough to be sitting near his path, and finally acquiesces to the necessity of desperate measures.

He calls Mycroft.

\----

By the time Mycroft arrives, his ever present PA/bodyguard in tow, Lestrade is already there, sitting with Sherlock, who is now sat curled around himself in one of the waiting room chairs, chewing on one fingernail, twitching with unreleased tension, and still glaring murder at everyone around him.

The look he gives Mycroft, however, when the older man stops in front of him, is telling. It is desperate. Anthea glances between the two brothers, then at Greg, before quietly disappearing.

Mycroft gives Sherlock an assessing look. Greg watches as an entire conversation happens in the space of two shifting expressions, without words; a different sort of psychic connection, he supposes. Then he watches Mycroft, the way he moves, the single raised brow directed at himself, the flicker of— what?-- that flashes across the older Holmes's face. He is more than a little fascinated, but then, Mycroft Holmes is more than a little fascinating.

Mycroft nods to his brother and takes his phone out of his pocket, hooking his umbrella over his arm as he dials, and walks off to talk to whomever he's calling. Greg watches him go. Sherlock glares at him and jumps up to go back to pacing.

\----

Mycroft is still there when the doctor finally comes out to speak with them. They do constitute the closest thing to family that is going to show up for John, and Mycroft has done what Mycroft does. The hospital staff are no longer objecting to Sherlock’s presence. They are frankly deferential to Mycroft. Greg they ignore.

The doctor explains quickly that John is stable and starting to regain consciousness, but they’ll be keeping him overnight for observation as he has a fairly serious concussion and they want to make sure he isn’t addled (the doctor uses far more serious words and phrases like ‘potential’ and ‘brain damage’ and ‘aneurysm’ but Sherlock shuts those words out immediately).

Finally, finally, he concedes that Sherlock can see John, but cautions that it’s only for a few minutes and that John isn’t to be disturbed or exhausted.

Sherlock dismisses the man from his attention as soon as he has the information he needs: John’s room number. He looks briefly at his brother.

“Fix it so I can stay,” he demands, before striding off towards the lifts.

Greg and Mycroft exchange a glance. They don’t need any words to have that conversation either.

\----

John wakes up alone in hospital, irritated at everything and nothing at all. He has a vague recollection of stirring in the night to a line of warmth from hip to foot, a weight pressed against his stomach, one of his hands tangled in soft curls.

But Sherlock isn't next to him in the bed. Sherlock isn't in the room at all, and John can feel a blurred sense of something that isn’t quite anger from him. It’s a confused, muddled feeling that John can’t quite interpret. Is he angry over John’s getting hurt or something else? John can't tell, but he resolves himself to finding an alternative way of getting home, once he's released--if Sherlock has left, he won’t be returning. He’ll be avoiding John, avoiding the perceived conflict his own anger causes, avoiding dealing with whatever it is he doesn’t want to deal with. John rolls his eyes and decides to ask Greg to come get him.

The blurriness at the edges of Sherlock's feelings indicates sleep, and John doesn't wake him.

It irritates him that he’s not warm anymore, from Sherlock’s presence, that he doesn’t have that weird contradictory sense of safety that being in Sherlock’s presence always gives him. It irritates him that his throat is dry and his eyes itch and that his head hurts.

His head really hurts. For once, though, it seems to be because of the blow, and not because of his peculiarities. His shields do feel battered, however, and he's not sure if that's because of the bump on his head or for some other reason. The vague sense of irritation fades as he wakes up but leaves a slight sense of unease behind, a vaguely sticky feeling that he can’t shake.

The link between himself and Sherlock feels raw in a way it hasn’t for a while, and that's worrying as well. Between the two issues, he'll have to spend some time in the isolation tank down in 221C, shoring up and repairing and tidying.

How Sherlock had managed not only to get his hands on a fucking isolation tank but also to convince Mrs Hudson to let him put it in the basement is a series of enigmas John does not care to contemplate. He'll merely be grateful that Sherlock did so and that it has helped them to increase their range exponentially. At this point there's almost nowhere in London either of them can venture that will put them out of range of each other, and they are both grateful for it. It allows life to be as close to normal as they’re ever going to get, with the psychic bond.

It has made other things possible as well. If he’s careful about it, he can slip into Sherlock’s head unnoticed, sit in Sherlock’s safe space, in their own flat, surrounded by flowers and bees, the smell of honey. The state of the bees is generally a good indicator of Sherlock’s mood, he’s found. Considering the way Sherlock’s brain works, it had surprised John to learn how peaceful that space is, how soothing it feels; he thinks it might have something to do with how Sherlock feels about him.

He’s pretty sure that Sherlock does the same to him; sometimes he thinks he can tell when it’s happening, like an extra thumping next to his heart, a little sense of _hello John, I’m right here_ , but he doesn’t say anything about it to Sherlock. Sherlock never says anything about it to him either. It seems to be one of those things they simply don’t talk about, and for once, John doesn’t feel the need to force Sherlock to confront it.

When he finally gets the OK to go home, Greg has been waiting (patiently, with good humor John is grateful for, flirting with the nurses and making awful jokes) for over an hour. He's even brought John a t-shirt and sweatshirt to wear, since John's had been ruined with his own blood and tossed by A&E staff while he was unconscious. He supposes he should be grateful they didn’t toss his jeans as well, but it’s hard to come by. John wishes briefly that he’d been taken to Barts, since they know him there; they’d probably have been more accommodating with him.

By now, Sherlock's anger has mostly dissipated, wholly replaced by that muddled something John can't quite interpret. This is unsettling in itself, as he has rarely had any problems figuring out how Sherlock feels about anything. The man feels things incredibly deeply, but his emotions are mostly quite straightforward. If John were psychically bonded to anyone else, he'd think they were impressed.

As they pull up in front of the flat, Sherlock is feeling something far more easily interpreted: very distinctly annoyed. A very specific type of annoyance associated with only one person.

“Mycroft is here,” John says as he steps out of the car.

Greg tries not to perk up; John still feels his interest, and has to hide his smile. Greg hesitates, glancing up at the flat. He's trying to come up with a reason to come up with John, and John gives him a moment before relenting.

“I've got beer, if you're not due anywhere,” John offers, grinning. Here, at least, is something positive to think about.

Greg tries to glare, but ends up smiling sheepishly. “Obvious?”

“I had no idea before now, Greg, but I _am_ an empath.”

Greg shrugs. “I've only met him once or twice.”

“C'mon up then. If nothing else, it's always a show when those two are in the same room.”

\----

The tension in the flat is palpable when John and Greg walk through the door. Greg doesn't need to be an empath to feel it. Mycroft and Sherlock are glaring at each other, clearly in the middle of both a silent argument and a staring contest.

John looks from one to the other and snorts before heading into the kitchen. Greg follows, for lack of a better idea.

“Sorry about them,” John says, more than loud enough for both to hear. “Put them in the same room and they revert to childhood.”

“I heard that, John,” Sherlock calls, not breaking his brother's gaze, tone vaguely annoyed but laced with amusement.

“You were meant to, Sherlock,” John replies, with a smile he almost means. The irritation is creeping in again, but he’s fighting it. He hands Greg his beer and they move into the lounge. Mycroft rises from John's armchair. Sherlock crosses his arms and scowls.

“Have you been introduced?” John asks, fighting not to grin. The tension in the room has changed significantly, and in the face of this John has a much easier time pushing away his irritation. Mycroft has clearly put his brother entirely out of mind when faced with the good-looking detective inspector. “Properly, I mean?”

Mycroft inclines his head in a polite indication that they have not. He doesn't look away from the detective inspector, however.

“Greg, this is Sherlock's brother Mycroft. Mycroft, DI Greg Lestrade.”

Mycroft smiles, almost shy, as they shake hands. Greg grins. “Detective Inspector,” Mycroft murmurs.

“Greg, please.”

“Mycroft, then.” And again, Mycroft smiles shyly.

Sherlock starts making exaggerated gagging noises while his brother and the police detective smile at each other, hands still clasped, completely oblivious to the other people in the room. John bodily drags Sherlock out of his chair and into the kitchen, shutting the pocket doors behind them.

They both end up muffling their giggles with their fists, leaning against each other to stay upright.

After a few moments of conspiratorial giggling, Sherlock sobers abruptly. He gives John a look that he usually reserves for corpses, then scowls again.

“He knows, John,” Sherlock says shortly, before sweeping out of the room. Stalking out of the room. Prowling out of the room, shoulders hunched and head bowed.

John hears the slam of Sherlock’s bedroom door and sighs. He ducks his head out of the kitchen to see Greg and Mycroft still with hands clasped. Mycroft is blushing, and Greg’s grin has eased over towards lascivious.

“Tea, Mycroft?”

Mycroft actually starts; John never thought he’d see the day. He covers his startlement quickly though, releasing Lestrade’s hand and turning to John.

“That would be lovely, John. Not too sweet, please.”

John grins at him, remembering the purposefully too sweet tea in Sussex. “Right-o.”

A moment later, John is staring at the kettle, drinking the beer that is surely going to exacerbate his pounding head, when Mycroft joins him in the kitchen.

“John, I believe we need to speak.” He feels a vague sense of unease, and John sighs.

“Sherlock told me,” John replies.

“Did he. Lovely. I would be interested to--”

“No, Mycroft,” John interrupts, shaking his head. “The answer is still no. We’ve been over this, haven’t we?”

“Yes, but that was before I learnt that you have made my brother psychic.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” John mutters sullenly. Sherlock isn’t the only one who reverts to childhood around his sibling. The kettle clicks off, and his movements are jerky when he gets down a mug and prepares tea for Mycroft.

“I know, John. I am simply... curious.”

“I’m sure you are, Mycroft. Look, if you want to know more about it, you’re going to have to get it from Sherlock. And frankly, I don’t think it’s any of your bloody business anyway. It’s our problem to deal with.”

“Is it so much of a problem then, John?”

John finds himself almost smiling at the amusement Mycroft feels. _He actually thinks this is good for Sherlock_ , John realizes. _Fancy that._

“No, not really,” he answers with a shrug. “Makes life a bit easier, in some ways.”

\----

Mycroft drinks his tea--John made it the way he likes this time--and the three of them chat for a bit in the lounge. Sherlock is conspicuous in his absence, and John can feel him pouting in his room. Mycroft and Greg keep falling into staring silently at each other, and John can’t help smile about it, even though it isn’t quite enough to distract him from the emotions emanating from Sherlock.

The swirl of Sherlock’s emotions, that weird combination of not quite anger and confusion and wonderment and good-lord-is-that-awe leaves John exhausted, and when Greg and Mycroft notice him yawning and drooping where he sits (almost at the same time), they both make their excuses and leave.

They are speaking in low voices as they descend the stairs, and John smiles.

Sherlock continues to avoid him, going so far as to ignore John when he knocks on Sherlock’s door.

“Fine,” John mutters to himself. “We’ll deal with it later. Git.”

\----

John decides to take a nap. His head still hurts, and he feels raw, still vaguely sticky. He’s hoping some sleep will help with that. He dry-swallows a couple of paracetamol and collapses into his bed, pulling the covers over his head and dropping into sleep almost immediately.

\----

Sherlock wakes him with the violin.

Because of course he does.

John lies in his bed for several minutes, prodding at things in his own head, prodding at things in Sherlock’s head, and listening to Sherlock’s playing, matching it up with the way he feels, and to a certain extent the way John feels as well.

When he tries--which is actually more often than not--Sherlock is quite a good violinist, and John has come to understand over the time they’ve been living together, and the time they’ve been bonded, that Sherlock’s only real outlet for his emotions before John, the only one he’s truly comfortable with, is his instrument. He stopped griping about it when he realized that, although that doesn’t make it easier to be woken by its music in the small hours of the morning.

John glances at the clock as he rolls out of bed, noting that Sherlock at least let him sleep for three hours before waking him. It’s probably best he gets up anyway, or else he won’t be sleeping much tonight, and he knows he needs a solid night’s rest, he can feel it. He pulls his jumper back on over the t-shirt he’s wearing with his flannel pyjama pants and shuffles downstairs. He watches Sherlock playing almost violently in front of the window in their lounge while he makes tea.

Because of course he makes tea. It’s one of those things John Watson just does, like Sherlock and his deductions, and Mycroft and being a prat. John makes the tea, and he debates trying to eat something, though he doesn’t feel hungry. He wonders if Sherlock has eaten anything all day.

Sherlock continues to play, but calms significantly when John collapses into his armchair. The tune goes soft and just a bit melancholy.

Eventually, John gets to his feet again, crosses the room to stand just behind Sherlock. Sherlock keeps playing, but steadies himself, smooths out his movements and softens the music further; it feels to John like a ‘hello’ and he smiles at Sherlock’s back.

After a moment, John lets his head dip forward, until it connects with Sherlock’s spine.

Sherlock keeps playing.

John can feel Sherlock’s shoulder blades moving beneath his skin, the muscles of his upper back and shoulders contracting and bunching as he plays, all of it translated against John’s forehead. It’s an interesting sensation, and he remains like that for longer than he thought he would, before Sherlock finally stops, drops his arms to his sides. He tips his head back, and John straightens just a bit, until he can feel Sherlock’s head resting against his own.

\----

The rest of the evening goes quietly. They don’t speak, but they don’t really need to. John heats up leftover takeaway and they both eat a bit; John doesn’t have to cajole Sherlock into eating. John watches some telly, Sherlock does something with his laptop.

Sherlock notices that John keeps glancing out the window, watching as the sky darkens and night falls. It’s curious, but he doesn’t comment on it.

Eventually, Sherlock is left wondering while John walks through the flat, turning off all the lights and pulling all the curtains shut. He leaves the lamp on the desk until last, turning it off and picking his way slowly through the clutter to sit next to Sherlock on the sofa.

“You’re angry with me,” John says quietly into the dark. They’re sat shoulder to shoulder on the couch.

 _Ah, I see now_ , Sherlock thinks. _John, you’re more than a bit brilliant sometimes._

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he replies, just as quietly. He feels John huff a sigh next to him, hears him rub his hands over his face.

It’s not totally dark in the flat, but it’s dark enough. His eyes are starting to adjust, he can see the outline of John right next to him.

“Yes, well, I think I’d like a full night of sleep tonight, Sherlock,” John replies.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything in reply to that, but he doesn’t leave either. Eventually, John takes this as assent and continues.

“Are you angry with me because I kept so much of it from you, or because you didn’t know I was doing it?”

“I’m not angry with you, John.”

“But you were.”

Sherlock shrugs. What is there to say to that? He was. He’s not anymore. At least, not really. “Probably the latter. Why? Why do you do it?”

It’s John’s turn to shrug. “I don’t know. I suppose it doesn’t seem fair, to force this on you on top of my own emotions. It’s a lot to deal with, and it can drive some people mad. I think it probably drives a lot of people mad.” John thinks of his mum, hears Sherlock’s quick gasp. “I don’t want you to be any madder than you already are, Sherlock.”

“How do you do it?”

John thinks for a few minutes before answering. “It’s a bit like diverting a new creek.”

“Show me?”

John nods. Sherlock doesn’t precisely see it, but he does feel it. He feels John settle himself into a light meditative trance and after a moment, hold out his hand for Sherlock’s.

There’s a creek in the safe space in John’s head, one with a small dam in one spot, and a diversion in another. Sherlock examines both closely.

“This dam won’t last, you know.”

John chuckles. “The diversion will, though.”

Sherlock opens his eyes. He can see much better now, the outlines of the furniture in the flat, their chairs, the fireplace, a faint glow from the kitchen.

“Let me feel it?”

“You’re sure?”

Sherlock nods.

Slowly, John lets down his extra guard, lets all the day to day emotion that he deals with and keeps from Sherlock as much as possible filter through to him. He lets it through gently, slowly, while Sherlock’s awe grows.

“How do you deal with it?”

John shrugs again. “The same way you deal with all the things you see every day. A lot of cataloguing, a lot of tuning the unimportant things out.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not particularly. I’m used to it.”

“You don’t have to do this, John.”

“I know,” John replies quietly. “But I want to.”

“Do you keep your own emotions from me as well?”

“What do you think, Sherlock?”

“I think you can’t.”

“I can’t,” John confirms.

\----

“Will it ever happen again, John?”

John sets down a mug of tea next to Sherlock’s elbow. Sherlock doesn’t look up from the slide he’s examining under his microscope.

“Possibly. I’m working on it as much as I can.”

“What should I do if it does?”

John thinks for a moment. “Burn them.”

Sherlock looks up.

“In your safe space, there’s a fireplace, right? Just like the one we have here?”

“Yes.”

“Feed the excess into a fire and burn them, let them flow back out of your head as smoke.”

It’s a ridiculous notion to even contemplate, but Sherlock is far more used to ridiculous notions and safe spaces and being psychic-adjacent than he used to be, and he can almost see how that would work.

“Could we experiment?” 

“Of course, Sherlock.” John smiles at him and takes his own tea and the medical journal that just arrived in the mail into the lounge to settle into his armchair with a sigh. _That’s settled_ , he thinks idly. _We’re good_. He ignores the faint feeling of irritation that tries to push its way back into his mind, keeps ignoring it until it fades into the background, and starts to read.


End file.
